


Today Was Just A Day Fading Into Another

by gilligankane



Category: Guiding Light
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-21
Updated: 2009-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:45:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivia knows there's nothing new about this day; it's the same thing over and over and she still hasn't tired of it yet. That's got to count for something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Today Was Just A Day Fading Into Another

“Em, you better be getting dressed,” you holler up the stairs the same moment the girl in question appears, sleepy-eyed at the top. “Oh, hey,” you say much softer, smiling. “I was getting worried.”

Emma rubs her eyes.

“Come on sleepyhead, or you’re going to miss breakfast.”

“ _You’re_  not making it, are you?”

You gasp and put one hand to your heart, trying to look offended. “Emma Spencer, I can’t believe you.”

She shuffles down the stairs and shrugs one shoulder up and down without apology. “Mom, pouring cereal into a bowl, then  _over_ dosing it with milk? That doesn’t count as ‘making breakfast.’”

“Emma, you’re going to miss pancakes!” Natalia calls from the kitchen and you watch as your sweet little girl’s face breaks into a wide smile.

“Pancakes,” she whispers with glee.

It scares you, just a little, the way her eyes light up and the way her hands rub together almost maniacally.

Over  _pancakes._

“Mom, are you coming?” You nod absently and head towards the kitchen, grabbing your cup of coffee that’s sitting on the mantle, trying to take a healthy gulp and walk at the same time. It doesn’t work and you hiss when the coffee hits your nightshirt, sinking into the fabric and soaking your skin.

“Damn it,” you mutter, pulling the wet shirt away from your skin.

“No swearing,” echoes through the kitchen. You smirk; neither of them even looked up from their food (Emma) or their morning paper (Natalia).

“I spilled coffee on my shirt.”

Natalia glances up,  _barely_ , and rolls her eyes. “Just put it near the washing machine later. But not  _in_  the washing machine, because…”

“Because you want to pre-soak it before you wash it and  _yadda, yadda, ya_ ,” you finish with a grin.

She only stares at you with a cool, unidentifiable expression. “Oh, you think you’re funny?”

“I  _know_  I’m funny,” you insist.

Now Emma rolls her eyes. “Just like you know…”

“Don’t finish that sentence if you want permission to go out this weekend.” Emma just smirks.

“Natalia will let me go if I ask her.”

“You’re sure about that, huh?”

“Don’t drag me into this,” Natalia quips as she rises and crosses the kitchen to the fridge, pulling out a sandwich. “Your mother is the law,” she adds.

Emma groans. “I thought you weren’t getting into this.”

“I’ve said my piece,” she answers, hands up.

You smirk. “I win,” you taunt and your daughter rolls her eyes. You stick your tongue out at her and before you can stop it, Natalia’s hand is connecting with your bare upper arm, hitting it solidly.

“ _That_  was mature.” Emma sticks her tongue out back at you when Natalia isn’t looking, sparing her the physical consequence.

“Cheater,” you whisper.

Emma grins and waggles her eyebrows at you.

“Hey,” Natalia snaps not unkindly. “You’re going to be late for school.”

Emma sighs and reaches across the table, snagging one last piece of bacon, tossing it into her mouth and closing her teeth with a snap.

That was  _your_  piece of bacon.

And your daughter – Lord help her – just smirks and bends down, pressing a quick kiss to Natalia’s cheek, then rolls her eyes again before she kisses you goodbye, muttering something about you ‘bending to her will no matter what.’

She slams the door and Natalia winces.

“Kids,” she says with a grin, kissing you quickly on her way back upstairs to get dressed for work.

“Yeah, kids,” you mutter with a frown, staring at your empty plate.

\---

You twirl the pencil restlessly between your fingers: once clockwise, once counterclockwise, twice clockwise, twice counterclockwise, three times clockwise, three times counterclockwise.

The phone rings.

It’s pathetic how quickly you reach for it.

You take a moment to collect yourself before you bring it to your ear, twisting your neck to the left and the right and taking a deep breath.

“Olivia Spencer,” you chirp.

“Well someone sounds happy.”

You smile without meaning to. “Hey you.”

Natalia lets out a small laugh that echoes further than just across the telephone line; it fills the empty space in your office and makes the walls just a little brighter. “Hey yourself. What are you so happy about?”

“ _You_  called.”

“That’s almost sad, Olivia.” She sighs and then her voice brightens and turns breathless. “And terribly adorable. You’re a romantic Olivia Spencer, and I will never believe anything else.”

“I’m  _bored_ ,” you mutter, much like a five-year-old.

“Don’t you have a hotel to run?”

“It’s running itself.” You pout, spinning in your chair until the cord of the chair traps you. You spin in the other direction and let it untangle, then you shift back, propping your stocking-covered feet up on the desk. “Greg hasn’t come in here  _once_ ,” you grumble. “And no one has made a complaint and I’ve done all of my paperwork. For the  _week_.”

“And  _why_  are you complaining about that?”

You huff and blow your hair out of your face. “ _Because_ ,” you whine. “I have nothing to do.”

“Why don’t you come meet me for lunch?”

“At Company,” you ask cautiously.

It’s been a while – years, even – but the place still gives you the creeps occasionally; Frank staring at you over the counter always manages to give you the creeps, even if he’s a “great guy” and he’s managed to get past you “stealing his bride-to-be” that one time.

“Yes, at Company.” You hear background noise at her end and then she’s telling you to ‘wait a second’ before she’s putting the phone down.

You twirl the pencil a couple more times before she picks it back up and you hear her sigh; you’re not going to lunch after all.

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “My meeting with that new author, the one who writes those kind of ‘self-help’ books, got moved up an hour and I’m nowhere _near_  ready for it.”

You sigh softly and smile to yourself. “I know, its okay. I’m sure, as soon as I hang up with you, Greg’ll come running here screaming about his shoes not matching his outfit, or something  _ridiculous_  like that.”

Natalia laughs lightly. “Says the woman who buys outfits to go with her shoes.”

“I’m a woman, it’s excusable and easily blamed on PMS. What’s  _his_  excuse,” you ask defensively.

“Nothing whatsoever,” Natalia says, her smile so wide you can  _hear_  it. “But I have to go, alright? Blake’s doing that, that hand thing again and it’s best if I hang up  _now_  rather than after she takes the phone away.”

“But we haven’t even talked that much during the day this week,” you whine again.

“I’ll get home before you, so make sure you’re on time, alright?”

You nod, then remember she can’t see you. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Need me to get anything before I come home?”

She hums lightly. “Nope, just bring you.”

“Consider it done.”

“I love you,” she whispers softly and the grin that was fading from your face at the prospect of not talking to her for a little while longer suddenly lights up again.

“I love you too.”

“Alright, I’ve got to go. Don’t be late!” she shouts as her voice gets distant, resounding with a final  _click_.

You sit statue still for exactly one minute – your eyes following the littlest hand on the clock as it zooms around the face – before you rise out of your chair, stick your feet back into your heels and go looking for Greg.

You need to find a little trouble.

\---

You resist the urge – yet again – to call out  _Honey, I’m home_  when you walk in the door, deciding instead to just kick your shoes off and drop your purse on the little stand by the front door. You notice there are more pairs of shoes than usual – the fourth pair is bigger and you raise your eyebrows gently.

Rafe must have come over for dinner.

“Mom?” Emma bounds down the stairs, skipping the last two and landing heavily at the bottom. She flashes a crooked grin then looks down. “Hey, is Rafe here?”

You shrug and nod at the same time. “Must be.”

She races into the kitchen ahead of you and squeals.

Rafe is  _definitely_  here.

“Hi,” you greet over the almost painfully inhuman noises coming from your daughter.

He looks over the top of Emma’s head, lifting his head a little because she’s taller and taller every day, and gives you a smile that looks so much like his mother’s that you get a little lost in it. “Hey.”

“How’s school?” You drop into a chair, dragging your daughter towards you.

“It’s great. I got that paper back, the one I did for my business class; Professor Shay gave me an ‘A’ on it.” His mouth is turned up in pride and satisfaction. “It’s not a big deal, just…”

“It’s a  _huge_  deal; that’s really great Rafe. Congratulations.”

“What are we congratulating him for?” Natalia asks from behind you, dropping her hands over your shoulders and locking them right under your chin. She uses two fingers to push your head back so that you’re looking up at the ceiling before her face is hovering over yours, then dropping down. You can taste a hint of dinner on her lips.   _Chicken_ , you think, smug in the knowledge that your taste buds never fail and even as Emma groans and Rafe lets out a small  _eep_  noise, you roll your eyes and push up a little, trying for more contact.

“I got an ‘A’ on that paper I wrote,” he says sheepishly.

“That’s great.” She smiles and puts a hand against his face, crinkling her nose.

You fall a little more in love with her.

“Hey,” he asks, looking from his mom to you. “Where’s the squirt?”

Emma grabs the carton of milk out of the fridge and pours two glasses. “With Uncle Frank tonight.”

“So it’s just us?” Natalia smiles absently from where’s stirring the stove and you can practically see the thoughts in her head:  _Us – a family_.

“Just us,” you say. “Want to help me set the table?”

“Uh, I got an ‘A’ on my paper,” he says, already moving up and out of his seat, backing slowly out of the kitchen. “I think I’ve done enough strenuous work today.”

He’s gone before you can protest, so you turn to your daughter.

Except she’s already shaking her head ‘ _no_ ’ and following Rafe out of the kitchen and into the living room.

“Well, that was…”

“Let it go.”

You frown. “I was just going to say…”

She smiles. “Let it go. Here, come taste this.”

She holds a spoon out, the sauce slowly dripping back into the pot. Keeping your eyes on her, your wrap your mouth around it, your tongue overloaded with the taste of sage and something that seems vaguely like thyme.

“Good?” she asks breathlessly.

“Great,” you whisper back, wrapping an arm low around her waist. “It was perfect.”

She raises an eyebrow slowly and nods resolutely. “It needs to cook a little longer.”

“How  _much_  longer?” Your voice is low and heated.

“Not that much,” she says cheekily. “Go set the table.”

“You ruin all my fun.” You frown again.

“I  _am_  your fun.”

You mutter something under your breath, but press a kiss to the underside of her jaw, letting your tongue touch her skin minutely before you pull away, heading to the cabinet for the plates.

“Not fair.” She’s the one whining this time.

You wink. “All’s fair in love and war.”

\---

“Popcorn?”

You look down. “Check.”

“Soda?”

Natalia looks at Rafe pointedly and shakes her head. “Apple juice,” she amends.

He sighs. “Fine. Apple juice?”

“Check.”

“Blankets?”

It’s wrapped snugly around your legs and up over Natalia’s lap. Another one is on the arm of the couch waiting to be used. Rafe had eyed it warily before, stating that he was twenty-three, practically a grown man (although, he still doesn’t object when Natalia packs leftovers into a container for him when he leaves), and  _pink_  blankets just wouldn’t do. But he took it begrudgingly when Natalia had reached over and snagged the navy blue one, securing it for the two of you.

“Affirmative on the blankets.”

“Emma?”

You glance towards the end of the couch where she sits. “Che –  _no_. Where is she?”

Natalia cranes her neck towards the kitchen, but the couch is more than too far away from the small hallway. You look to your left, but that’s where Rafe is sitting and on your right is Natalia.

Jellybean has gone MIA.

“Hey, Bean?” You holler from the couch in the direction of the stairs. There’s a solid  _thump_  then she’s hopping down the stairs with a sheepish smile on her innocent little face. “Nice of you to join us.”

She rolls her eyes and falls back onto the couch, landing first on Natalia’s legs – giggling when Natalia squeaks a little – and then shifts until she’s nestled in the corner of the couch. “Well, are we gonna get this party started, or are we all going to stare at the blank screen?”

You narrow your eyes, but Natalia’s hand slides down your arm and her fingers tangle in your own, calming you. So you let it go and give Rafe the “go-ahead” nod. He grins and presses  _play_.

The credits for  _Casablanca_ start to roll and even with the volume turned up, you can hear Emma groan and Natalia sigh.

“Again?” they ask simultaneously.

Rafe nods and you smile; there is one thing you two have in common and the love of all things Humphrey Bogart will bond you and Natalia’s son for a long time.

“Come on,” you urge good-naturedly. “We haven’t watched it in a while.”

“Two weeks,” Natalia says in a deadpan voice at the same time Emma whines, “but it’s  _old_.”

You raise another eyebrow and your daughter has enough sense to shut her mouth with an audible snap. Natalia sighs again, but burrows further into your side and lets her head fall into your arm, prompting you to lift it and slip it around the back of her neck.

She hums into your arm and you smile into her hair, pressing a light kiss to the top of her forehead before turning to focus on the movie.

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” you whisper along with Bogart later.

Natalia grins.

\---

The sheets are cool when you pull back the comforter, sliding your feet out of your slippers, ready to slide yourself in between the silk.

“Natalia?”

“Hmm?” She comes into the doorway of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. She sticks it back in her mouth, tilting her head to the left as she tries to reach the back of her teeth.

“What do you think Emma was doing upstairs before the movie?” You feel slightly sheepish, asking  _Natalia_  about the things  _your_  daughter was and is doing, but she just smiles at you and holds up one finger, telling you to wait.

You hear the water running, then her gurgling and spitting. It should be disgusting, because when Phillip or Josh or Alan or Bill did something like that where you could hear, or see, you refused to kiss them goodnight.

She could  _not_  brush her teeth every night and you’d still kiss her.

Lucky for you, she finds brushing her teeth a necessary bedtime ritual.

“That night, last week, when you worked late? She mentioned something about some boy that just moved to Springfield and they were going to go on a study date,” she says, startling you out of your thoughts as she comes out of the bathroom, dropping her robe into the chair in the corner of the room.

You make no attempt to hide the way your eyes trace the lines of her body and it distracts you for a moment before her words really register with you.

“Wait, did you say some family moved to Springfield?  _Voluntarily?_ ” She rolls her eyes and pulls the comforter back even more, loosening the sheet underneath it, because unlike you, she doesn’t like “the feeling of being suffocated” or so she claims, the way you do.

“And did you just say that…”

“That she’s going on a  _study_  date. Derek will be there and Jodie and whoever else she’s talking to this week,” Natalia finishes, rolling onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows, turning her head towards you.

“Well I want to meet him,” you huff.

She smiles. “Of course you do.”

You watch as she leans forward and presses her mouth against the smooth skin of your shoulder, her eyes closed.

“I do,” you insist lightly.

“Uh huh,” she agrees, her lips ghosting across your neck and around the back of it.

“No.” Your breath hitches. “I really, really…oh.”

She smirks – something like a dirty grin, one you never would have imagined when you first met her – and leans ever closer. “You really  _what_?”

Without blinking, you turn and end up with her underneath your body, framed by your arms, grinning up at you. “I really love you.”

She nods and lifts her chin, bumping your nose with hers until you tilt a little to the right, finding the corner of her mouth with your eyes closed, tasting peppermint toothpaste and vanilla mouthwash. “I would hope so,” she whispers into your ear, breaking away from your mouth and tracing an invisible line only she can ever see, from your lips to your ear, detouring at your neck. “Because this wouldn’t be happening if you didn’t.”

You snort then bury your face in her air, taking in the smell of lavender and the dryer sheet scent that seems to stick to her no matter what.

“Then lucky me.”

She twists in your arms until you’re lying on your side and one arm is tangled underneath her body, trapping you around her.

“And don’t you forget that Ms. Spencer.” You can feel her shake a little when she laughs. “What do you want for dinner tomorrow?”

You groan. “I don’t care about tomorrow.” You kiss up across the column of her throat, your own breath warming both of you. “I just care about  _now_.”

“Ol-ivia.” She looks at you over her shoulder. “We need to get up early.”

“Okay, but can’t you just kiss me?”

Her face – the stern expression that she was displaying – melts away in an instant and then she’s smiling wide and slow, turning around so you’re face to face. “Of course I can,” she whispers, closing the distance as she’s speaking, her mouth slanting over yours timidly before she’s pushing forward and her tongue is pressing delicately against the seam of your lips.

“Alright,  _now_  we can go to bed.” You give her a light smile. “Wake me when you get up?”

“Oh, sure.” She settles back into your arms with the back of her head in the crook of your neck. She knows even if she says yes, even if  _you_  ask her to wake you, you’ll never get up when she does, but then again, she won’t either – not right away.

She’ll stay there with you for that extra hour, and grin wickedly as she lets your hands wander from her face to her arms to the soft skin under the edge of her nightshirt to the even softer skin under her waistband. She’ll stay there with you, half-wrapped in your thousand-count silk sheets, half-wrapped around you, whispering against your skin.

She’ll get up, still earlier than anyone else in the house even  _dreams_  of being awake and leave you to sleep for a little longer, bustling through the house quietly, slowly piecing your family together in the early hours.

For now, you’ll sleep, sharing the center of the bed, smiling to yourself.


End file.
